


Badman VIP

by naboojakku



Series: A-Z Apple Playlist Short Fic Collection [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Ben is 34, Breeding Kink, Bruises, Captivity, Choking, Complete, Controlling Ben Solo, Controlling Kylo Ren, D/s Vibes, Daddy Dom Kylo Ren, Darkfic, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, Dominant Ben Solo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Error 101 Ben Solo Not Found, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Humiliation tactics, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mention of Starvation, Non-Consensual Touching, Obedience, Obsession, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is at least 18, Reader-Insert, Submissive Character, bleak ending, dubcon, he kind of switches between his Ben and Kylo personas, hostages, mention of anal sex, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboojakku/pseuds/naboojakku
Summary: "He’s in a very good mood today. You haven’t glimpsed his eyes yet, but you hope it’s Ben in there.Because Ben loves you."➖➖⚫️➖➖⚫️➖➖In which you do as Sir commands in order to protect what’s locked in the basement.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You, Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Series: A-Z Apple Playlist Short Fic Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932367
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	1. all the good girls go to hell

**Author's Note:**

> **B is for ["Badman VIP"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4niIZYGcezU) by Kryptic Minds. [The few lyrics featured in this track are p e r f e c t for dom!Kylo.]**
> 
> **Inspired by my Apple playlist. Not a songfic.**

Your heart stutters at the sound of the garage door opening, but you don’t move an inch. The cameras will tell him later how you reacted, and he’ll be upset if he spies so much as a flinch. Better to stare straight ahead at a fixed point. The steady concentration helps. 

Nine o’clock. He’s two hours late. 

At least the carpet is a balm to your knees. Last week he made you wait in the kitchen, and you were so sore the next day—knees black and blue and frighteningly weak—you could barely walk a straight line. But the carpet here is soft and fuzzy, and it’s a pretty ivory. Like snow. When he shoves your face to the floor—and he will—you can pretend it’s a fluffy cloud instead. 

The garage door opens and closes with an audible click heard throughout the cemetery-silent house, and heavy footsteps cross the kitchen tiles. Your spine stiffens automatically, chest thrusting forward, neck arched just so. On display, as you’ve been taught. 

When he rounds the corner, your eyes are already downcast. He likes you demure, and his likes are all that matter. 

A minute passes. He doesn’t speak, and you don’t move, not even to blink. You keep your eyes narrowed to slits so the urge doesn’t overwhelm you. Tears are too revealing, too emotional, even when they’re fake. 

Sometimes he’ll sit on the couch, arms draped over the back, and watch you. Silent. Admiring. “Like a piece of art,” he once said. You need to maintain the illusion of total stillness—a human statue—or risk his disappointment. 

You can’t disappoint him. You _can’t_. 

Eventually, after nearly three full minutes—you count the seconds—his feet shift on the tiles, and he disappears back into the kitchen without a word.

A relieved breath escapes your lungs. He’s satisfied. The rosy pink bustier and matching lace garters were laid out on the bed when you arrived several hours ago. You didn’t need to text him to know he wanted you to wear this tonight. You didn’t need to text him to know he would expect you to kneel by the front door the second you were dressed. You didn’t need to text him to know that this was the bare minimum expectation. 

To wait hours and hours without slumping or rising or fidgeting is an acquired skill. These past few weeks have proven you’ve an aptitude for stillness. 

Fortunately. 

Clothing delights him. You know it’s just another measure of control. Pink days mean he’s in a good mood. He’s feeling generous. Black days mean pain and punishment, tears and begging. Black days mean bruises, and when he mounts you from behind, like _a bitch in heat_ , you’ll be expected to take and take and take what he gives you, even if it hurts, even if you bleed, even if you scream. And you do. 

But pink signifies a lighter mood. Kisses, caresses, maybe even a whispered endearment or two. 

Pink days get you through it. 

A minute later, he returns to the living room and takes a seat on the sofa. Ice clinks against the sides of a glass; he’s drinking scotch again. Another sign it’s been a good day. A smile threatens to breach your poker face, but a sharp snap of his fingers wipes it away. 

You crawl to him, swaying your hips and going just slow enough you know you have his full attention. The silence of the room is deafening, but that’s how he prefers it—no distractions. You lean your head on his knee, eyes still lowered. He hasn’t spoken yet, or given you any indication that’s what he wants from your mouth. Your hands wind around his calf, and you listen intently as he sips from his glass. 

His eyes are like twin points of heat on your skin. You feel them tracking across your face, over your pumped-up tits and down your slim body. Scantily clad in lace and clingy, transparent silk, your lingerie leaves little to the imagination. 

A big hand palms the back of your head, fingers tangling in the loose, wavy strands of your hair. You’ve curled it for tonight, per his written instructions. All too often he wants it up in a knot or bun—easier to yank. But last week he took you for a trim, and now the ends sweep the protruding curves of your collarbones. 

His thumb rubs circles on the nape of your neck. It’s soothing, an insignificant yet welcome touch. You suppress a sigh just in time, eyes drifting closed as he strokes your hair. He’s in a very good mood today. 

You haven’t glimpsed his eyes yet, but you hope it’s Ben. Because Ben loves you. 

He sets down his scotch and snaps his fingers again, pointing at his crotch. You fumble at first with his zipper, but in no time you’re slipping his erection free. It curves straight up, straining at his black briefs. You expertly shift the material off and over so his cock springs into the open. Gently, he guides your head forward until your lips brush the dripping head. His precum is syrup-thick and salty—a taste as familiar to you as water. 

He doesn’t need to prompt you. By this point, you know the drill and are more than eager to comply. You know what’s at stake.

You start at the base, tongue trailing a wet stripe to the reddened tip, bulbous and swollen like an exotic mushroom. He doesn’t make a sound as you close your lips over the head and take him into your mouth—shallowly, for now. There’s no rush, and you know what happens if you go too fast. He wants to savor you. 

His musky taste floods your mouth, and despite yourself your body tightens with anticipation. A few more long, slow licks, and then you dip down to suck on his heavy balls. He loves this part—sometimes he wakes you up out of a deep sleep to demand you bring them into your mouth to suck and fondle and suck until he unravels. A sharp intake of breath is your only warning, and then his hand tightens in your hair, pulling so tight you feel several strands rip at the root. Your eyes water, but you don’t stop sucking or licking until his thighs tremble. 

Then, with one determined swoop, you swallow his cock, drawing his length into your mouth quick enough your body doesn’t have time to react. Your nose brushes his lower belly, and that’s when you gag—the head of his cock presses to the very back of your throat, balls sliding against your chin. Precum smears your lips and the back of your throat, and you swallow once, twice, begging yourself to stay in control. 

He groans and hisses through his teeth. “C’mon, kitten. Show Daddy what you’ve learned.” 

You adjust your position between his legs, your hands resting on his spread thighs. The hardest adjustment has been breathing through your nose, and you take a moment to practice. _Don’t forget,_ you tell yourself calmly. _You need to keep breathing._ In the beginning, you passed out on his cock, and he was _very_ upset with you. No cuddles or kisses. No bed—you were forced to sleep on the floor next to him. No clothes, either, even though he kept the temperature of the house chilly. No food but his semen for three days. Not a particularly severe punishment, all things considered. 

But you’ve learned your lesson.

You bob up and down on his cock, slick sucking sounds reverberating through the room, occasionally interspersed with his quiet groans. His fingers drag lines through your hair, tugging and stroking in turns. His hips jerk forward, forcing his cock to the back of your throat, and you choke wetly. 

He makes a sound you’ve never heard before—half moan, half exclamation, and then he’s pushing your head down his shaft. He thrusts like a man possessed, cushion creaking under his bucking hips, and only when you start to gargle and choke again and again does he finally cum. Thick, salty jets hit the back of your throat and ooze from the sides of your mouth, but you keep swallowing mouthful after messy mouthful until he collapses back into the sofa. 

You gently cup his balls and set about licking him clean, drool and cum smeared on your lips. You’re not allowed to clean yourself up, though. Not yet. Too early. So even as the drool snakes its way down the curve of your throat and his cum pools in your collarbones, you don’t wipe it away. He loves you messy. 

His hands release you, and he kisses the top of your head. “Very good,” he murmurs, blissed out, voice husky. 

Then he guides you off your knees. You climb into his lap, legs spread to either side of his hips, and lower yourself on his cock. He allows you a second or two to adjust, and then his lips latch onto a pert nipple through the silk of your bustier. 

Your head falls back, eyes fluttering, but a harsh slap to your ass reminds you of your duty. You swallow dryly and make eye contact. He bites your nipple, and none too gently. But you smile and whisper how much you love him, how much you need him, how without him you would be nothing. 

And through it all, he stares back at you with eyes cavern-dark and empty, inhaling your words like they’re the only thing keeping him alive. 

Control snapping like a rubber band, you bounce on his cock until he cums again, fingers digging black crescents in your hips, and then a second time, and then a third, and when you scream your release you imagine an answering call from the floor below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part II coming tomorrowwww 😬 surprisingly, I rly like writing second-person POV, so I’m experimenting a lil**


	2. bury a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **sticking to an update schedule? not on your life, kid**

Hours later—much, _much_ later when you’ve been used and discarded so many times you’ve simply lost count—you crawl across the carpet to his side of the bed and sit with your hands in your lap, waiting to be noticed. 

Some time ago, he tossed you to the floor after your final round of fucking. He’ll do that every now and again because it amuses him to see you struggle back up to the bed, flushed and dripping, eyes downcast. He likes to watch you quiver and simper, begging without words to take you again, and he will—first in the ass, because it immobilizes you, then in the mouth again, because he enjoys the way your eyes go all hazy and half-lidded. He’s told you more than once that your mouth is only good for one thing, and you’re not quite sure when you started to believe him. 

You still haven’t seen his eyes, and maybe that’s a good thing. You’re pretty sure it’s Ben, anyway. Kylo would never allow you to sleep beside him. 

Now, kneeling on the carpet, still dressed in your pretty pink lingerie, strings hopelessly criss-crossed and tangled across your back, nipples red and sensitive as they brush the lacy cups, you stare at his face, peaceful in repose. 

He’s an extraordinarily handsome man. To you, at least. You’ve noticed that women are either immediately attracted or immediately disinterested in him. You’re not quite sure what about him has this affect on people. His height intimidates. His face, long and pale, sharp with cheekbones and nose, is usually set sternly—unapproachable. Black hair and eyes dark enough to match. He seldom smiles.

In sleep, a soft, barely-there turn of his lips sets your heart beating a quicker tempo. It’s uncomfortable, and you repress an urge to hold a hand to your heart. 

You whine quietly, wishing he would let you stand, would let you meet him as an equal, but that is one rule that will forever retain its permanence. No standing. There are others, of course; too many to name. No concealing clothes in his presence. No demanding or disobeying. The only acceptable answers in this house are _yes, yes please,_ and _yes sir._

He shifts in sleep, eyes blinking blearily open. Through the gloom of the bedroom, you see him lock on to you, and you immediately drop your eyes to the edge of the mattress. Your heart skips a beat. Has he noticed? That you’ve been staring? You’re not sure if he’ll like that. 

His head lifts from the pillow, and he grunts. “Kitten. Why aren’t you in bed?”

You don’t say anything. He hasn’t given permission for you to speak, and even half-asleep he’s trying to trick you into disobeying. The punishment is part of his ego trip, and you won’t give him that satisfaction. Not tonight. 

You lick your lips but otherwise don’t react. 

He sighs and slumps down on the mattress. One of his arms dangles off the side, and when his fingers appear in your line of sight, he wiggles them. You carefully grab his hand and hold it in yours. His are huge and faintly calloused; he spends quite a few hours at the gym each week, honing his body to a needle-fine point. He’s all sharp edges and lean muscle. He does it for you, he says often. Everything for you. 

You should be thankful, and you do try. But the act of convincing is itself a tell. 

“Not yet,” he slurs, squeezing your fingers so hard the bones grind. You clench your teeth to keep from crying out. 

Then you’re yanked up, and he rolls you facedown. His body—hot and pulsing and so heavy on your own—slides over yours, and he guides his cock inside you with expert hands. Breathing unsteadily into your neck, he pushes you deep into the bed as he sinks into your cunt, already so sore and used from the night’s activities. 

You don’t protest as he bangs you into the mattress, hips pistoning, smacking the curves of your ass. His groans and stifled pants fan across the skin of your back, and he holds you by the neck so you can’t squirm away—an unfortunate habit of yours he hasn’t been able to train out of you. 

Minutes pass. The house is silent as a church save for the creak of the mattress, his explosive breaths, and the muffled chirp of insects through the bedroom windows. His balls smack your pussy with every languid thrust, and you squeeze your eyes shut to stave off an orgasm. You know he won’t let you, not tonight. It’s all about _his_ pleasure now. 

So maybe it’s Kylo, after all. It’s so damn hard to tell sometimes. 

Finally he cums, groaning deep in his chest as he snaps his hips once, twice, three times, bumping you up the mattress until your head brushes the teakwood headboard. Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers twisting in the silk sheets, spine arching as his cum flows into you. It’s like a never-ending stream. Some days you jolt out of a daydream, or maybe a nightmare, convinced you’re sitting in a puddle of cum, only to realize that your panties are clean, your pussy no wetter than usual. 

He kisses between your shoulder blades, sloppy and oddly intimate. You shift, but he still has you pinned. He’s mumbling nonsense into your skin, and as you wait for his post-coital haze to dissipate, you work your hips, hoping some of his cum has made the short journey to your womb. 

_Any day, now,_ you think desperately. _It’s been weeks. Any day, now._

Eventually he slides off your back, the mattress dipping under his weight. You swallow and remain prone on your stomach. It’s been a very long day, and an even longer night, but you’re still wide awake, eyes scanning every inch of him, waiting.

Always waiting.

Minutes pass, and they pass, and they pass. His chest stutters with either a snore or a hiccup of air. His shoulders lose their constant tension. Despair threatens. You won’t let the tears come, but your hands shake, your heart whirls like an engine worked too hard. He mustn’t fall asleep. Please god, don’t let him fall asleep. 

Then, the signal—he waves a hand towards the door. “Go.”

Your heart leaps, and you rise eagerly from the bed. He hasn’t forgotten. He’s letting you go. You’re certain it’s Ben tonight, and that's a relief. Kylo rarely lets you leave his sight for more than a minute. Take too long in the bathroom and he’ll barge in when you’re on the toilet. (No locks in his house. Well, none but one.) 

You’re off the mattress and tip-toeing from the side of the bed when his hand snakes out and cinches your wrist. A gasp escapes, and you stumble and nearly fall back on the mattress. Unthinkingly, your gaze flies to his face.

His eyes are black in the lightless bedroom. “Five minutes. Don’t make me come find you, kitten.”

You nod quickly, lower lip trembling. You can see the indecision on his face. The longer he keeps you here in his house, the stronger his possessiveness. He's constantly anxious about where you are, what you're doing, how you look. Even how you feel, but he at least recognizes he has less control over that. Lately you’ve noticed that when he looks at you, whether it's at the breakfast table or when you're perched in his lap, he’s a bit wild-eyed. Like he’s being driven to the edge of sanity every hour of the day. You don’t know what to do to keep him away from that tipping point. 

He licks his lips and—gently now—tugs you towards him. You bend over the mattress, and he kisses the corners of your mouth. He wears an odd expression, but before you can decipher it, he releases your wrist and turns his head on the pillow. A dismissal. 

You don’t hesitate. Out of the bedroom, down the hallway, the central staircase, into the kitchen. You fumble with two solid gray trays. The fridge holds a treasure trove of goodies; the housekeeper must have stocked up before the long weekend. You slap sandwiches and pastries and pasta and slices of meats and cheese on the trays. Food piles on in disorganised heaps, and you stuff bottles of water under your arms while balancing both trays.

The key is where it always is—by the basement door. You unlock the padlock, set it gently—and visibly—on the side table in the hallway, aware of the cameras angled to watch and record your every move. _See?_ the gesture says. _I’m following the rules._ Deliberately, you turn the knob with gentle fingers, heart in your throat, and descend the cement stairs. 

As always, they see your legs first and let out a collective groan of relief. You go faster, careful not to trip because bruises on your bodies--ones he hasn't put there himself--drives him into a rage, and then the rest of the basement comes into view.

“Oh, thank god.” The woman dips her head, but not before you glimpse tear tracks on her cheeks. She’s paler than even two days ago, when you were last allowed down. Yesterday was a Kylo day, and Kylo forbids you from going anywhere near the basement door.

“Here!” The man looks half-starved, and you scurry to place a tray in front of him. His hands reach for the food, chains jangling. A giant chunk of sandwich disappears into his mouth, quickly followed by a slice of cheese and a small piece of sirloin steak. 

“Dad, _please_ slow down, you’ll choke.” Your voice is raspy—you haven’t used it all day except to scream when he fucked you. 

Your mother paces herself. She slips a noodle into her mouth and chews slowly. They’ve both lost weight, but it’s your mother who really worries you. Even through her cotton t-shirt you can see the sharp definition of her ribs. The sight makes your stomach tighten. They’ve been down here too long. 

“Thank you, honey,” Mom whispers, accepting a proffered water bottle. You watch as she downs half the bottle in one go, throat moving thickly. They usually don’t go too long without water, but maybe you should mention to him that they need more. You’ll have to plan way in advance how to delicately broach the subject without offending him.

“How are you?” The words slip out in a whisper. It’s all you can manage. Guilt chokes you. They’re here because of _you,_ after all. 

Mom nods,face twitching. “We’re managing.”

Dad grunts and shoves another chunk of sandwich into his mouth. His eyes rake down your near-naked body, and your shoulders instantly curl inwards. You know what he’s looking for, and it’s painfully obvious none of the signs are there. 

You shake your head.

Mom’s smile trembles at the corners. “It’s okay, honey. We know you’re trying.”

You nod, swallowing convulsively, and carefully place the remaining water bottles between your shackled parents. _At least they’re on carpet,_ you tell yourself. _At least it’s air conditioned. At least they get fed fairly regularly._

At least he hasn’t just killed them.

Dad says your name. His voice is heavy and quiet—not hopeless, but close enough to warrant a surge of panic. “Please try harder, love. I know that—this isn’t what you wanted—but please try. For us.”

Tears sting your eyes. “I know,” you rasp, guilt smothering you. “I’m trying—we’re _both_ trying—”

You know it’s a mistake to bring _him_ up, and sure enough Mom flinches, but it’s true. He’s been making every effort to put a baby in you. Some time was lost in the beginning because you resisted, and as a consequence he had to punish you, but as time wore on and you discovered there was no getting away from him—there was no reason to leave, really, when your parents were kept as hostages in the basement of this echoing mansion—you threw yourself whole-heartedly into giving him what he so desperately wants.

He wants a baby. An heir. He needs one, and he needs one from _you_. 

You’ve tried and tired and _tried_ to understand what you did to contribute to his obsession. But the answer is always the same—absolutely nothing. 

Three months ago you were free. Well, free and very broke. In desperate need of a job, you applied for a position at his Fortune 500 company, not really anticipating anything would come of it, but hey—you wanted to at least cast your line out there, just in case fish were biting. 

His personal secretary called to schedule an interview for that same day, and when you walked into his palatial office, he turned around, wearing a pleasant, polite smile, every inch the successful billionaire. But then the coffee mug he held slipped from his fingers and shattered on the clean white tile. 

You froze, gaping at him, oddly embarrassed as if this slip in decorum was your fault. His eyes were riveted to your face, which didn't strike you as odd then. You stepped forward, stammering nonsense, intending to pick up the pieces even though that was absolutely _not_ your job, but he gripped you tightly by your shoulders and pulled you upright, tilting your head back so he could look at you. Ceramic pieces of the mug crunched under his Italian loafers. 

For those endless few seconds, he seemed to devour you—his arms enfolded your body like creeping vines, his cheek brushed the top of your head as he inhaled the scent of your hair, your breath mingled with his when he leaned close, and for a bizarre second, or maybe even half a second, you imagined you had finally found a place to belong. He held your gaze, and in it you saw home. 

To your eternal regret, you fell instantly and hopelessly in lust with him. 

Ben Solo, eyes fathomless, expression hard and yet dazed too, had tipped your chin up with a slim, elegant finger and breathed, _There you are_. You had laughed nervously, not understanding, and when he asked if you would stop by his city residence sometime tomorrow evening, you saw no reason to disagree. _I’ve got the job!_ you thought excitedly, fingers flying across the keyboard of your phone as you exited the building. You knew Mom and Dad would be relieved and, even better, impressed. 

You were not aware at the time that the moment you were out of his view, he assigned two men to tail you. 

When he locked you away, you did not at first understand. _A joke,_ you told yourself. The weird humor of an eccentric billionaire. But then days passed, and you realized that the two of you were not playing a game. So you fought, and when he fucked the resistance out of you, you planned. 

You managed to escape twice, for a few hours, and after another failed attempt some three weeks in, he led you down the basement steps, leash in hand, cinched to the collar at your throat, and showed you what would happen if you dared tried to leave him again. Mom’s face, tear-streaked and dotted with bruises. Dad’s face, splattered with blood, nose broken, left arm hanging from the chains at a funny angle. You went numb with understanding. 

Three months, and now the only thing you wish for is to give him what he so desires. Even if it tears you apart. 

But at least then you’ll be free. 

Mom nods slowly, lips pulling into a frown that hints at more tears. But she holds them back because she knows they upset you. “The sooner the better, darling. We just want to get out of here.” 

“I know,” you say, breathing hard, careful to maintain the distance between you and your parents. The cameras watch everything. “I promise, Mom. I’ll get you out, I _will_. It’s gonna happen soon, I know it.” His detailed chart of your ovulation cycle shows that the coming week is prime time for conception. 

Dad ignores you in favor of the food, but Mom smiles again. It’s unconvincing, but it’ll have to do—your five minutes are almost up. With a lingering glance—the shackles have rubbed the skin of their wrists raw, you notice helplessly—you race quietly up the stairs and shut the door behind you, trembling. 

Once you’re pregnant, they’ll be free to leave. He promised. _They'll be set loose, and once the baby's born, so will you._ His words. The only reason they’re here is to keep you in line. Once you’re pregnant, they’ll be safe. Free. 

And there'll be nothing to hold you here.

But he won’t let you go before then, which means there's at least a month left for them—enough time to ensure the pregnancy takes—and nine for you. As you slowly lock the basement door, padlock clicking into place with a muted clang, you wonder, not for the first time, if he’ll really and truly let you go. Once the baby’s born, he’ll have his heir, and that's all he wants. There’ll be no reason to keep you around. _You,_ the incubator. He’ll let you go, like he will your parents. 

He will. Of course he will.

You climb into bed beside him, and his hand instantly finds your breast, palm rubbing circles on your aching nipple. His mouth seeks the hollow of your throat to kiss, to lick, to bite—he does all three in quick succession, marking and laying claim. 

“Cutting it a little close,” he warns gruffly, kissing you hard, tongue sweeping the roof of your mouth. 

His body slowly but inevitably covers yours until you and he are once again chest-to-chest, your hips aligned, his hands braced by the sides of your head. Like rungs of a cage, binding you in place, you look through them at the ceiling as he glides inside your sopping wet pussy. 

He nips mindlessly at your jugular, growling, “Mine,” and soon the bed is heaving, the room spinning, an orgasm building to an unbearable degree. Your toes curl, and you cry out, and he is everywhere, inside and out, and for the rest of the night and late into the morning he is your focal point, your morning star, your final destination. 

He will let you go, in the end. Of course he will. 

You manage a smile when he kisses you good morning. He sighs into your mouth and lazily rolls his hips, cum sloshing at the point where you’re joined. His eyes, glazed with pleasure, lock on yours. In them, you see heat and need and the red tinge of madness. But it doesn’t scare you. Much. 

Because he promised, and that hint of freedom, of tomorrow, is all you need to make it through another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OTHER WORKS**
> 
> Fluff
> 
> [Saving What We Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328586) (complete)  
> [#dirtytextchallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771213) (oneshot)  
> [The Artist's Garden At Giverny (1900)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307039) (oneshot)  
> [Steal My Heart (There Are No Returns)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701381) (oneshot)  
> [Only By Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673103) (oneshot)  
> [Love Only Matters When We Bleed For It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415190) (complete)  
> [After Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723263) (WIP)
> 
> Darkfics
> 
> [if you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361551) (WIP)  
> [drenched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117876) (WIP)  
> [I've Got A Dark Alley & A Bad Idea (That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814914) (oneshot)  
> [never bet the devil your head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609829) (complete)  
> [slowly therefore surely](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639642) (oneshot-for now)  
> [Chasm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962308) (complete)  
> [In Our Darkest Hour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810736) (complete)  
> [Stifle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724003) (oneshot)  
> [Aggressive Expansion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568556) (complete)
> 
> ~~say hi! (or come yell at me)~~  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naboojakku)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/naboojakku/?hl=en)


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